


Battle's Dawn

by WeCouldPretend



Series: Camlann [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Romans | Arthurian Romances - Chrétien de Troyes
Genre: Arthur's well organized cavalry, Camlann fix it, Fix It, Fix-It, Galahad also has magic but I won't tell you how he got it till later, Galahad will personally undo this tragety, Galahad's back from the dead, Grail Quest, Holy Grail, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mordred has magic, Mordred is blameless, Pendragon Family Nonsense, Possession, The grail is not to be trusted, Very tired Galahad, War, bewitched Mordred, spectacular parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23763601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeCouldPretend/pseuds/WeCouldPretend
Summary: "They had come a long way the night before. Galahad had ridden hard into Arthur’s army camp, found his parents again, and had almost immediately turned his horse towards the enemy encampment in order to break a curse of a year and a half that had laid itself upon Mordred. Naturally, this whole mess had started when he’d touched the Grail that Galahad had almost died retrieving. What a pair they made."
Relationships: Cei/Branwen, Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian), Guinevere/Lancelot du Lac/Arthur Pendragon, Lancelot du Lac/Arthur Pendragon, Palomedes/Tristan
Series: Camlann [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662184
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. No Light

Galahad awoke an hour before the first fingers of the dawn crested the horizon. It was true, what they said in the foolish old sayings. It was always darkest before the dawn. Galahad knew this like he knew the sun would rise. It was coded into the very fabric of his being. He always awoke during the very blackest moment of the night. Generally, this just meant that he stretched in bed, and then rolled back over for another hour or two of sleep. But not tonight. Not today. Today Galahad was changing the fates’ design. Or at least, correcting it to be as the resident fate wished. 

The knight took a moment to appreciate the man lying in his arms. Mordred Pendragon, High Prince and High Priest of Albion was deep asleep on the cot next to him. He slept soundly, silent and still as he always was during the nighttime hours. It was frightening, on the occasions that he breathed too slowly and appeared not to breathe at all. There had been times in the past that Galahad had woken him up just to check that he was alive. Today was no exception. He was breathing deep and slow, seeming totally at rest as he lay with his back pressed into Galahad's front and curled into his arms. It was the space in Galahad’s bed that had been empty for so long.

They had come a long way the night before. Galahad had ridden hard into Arthur’s army camp, found his parents again, and had almost immediately turned his horse towards the enemy encampment in order to break a curse of a year and a half that had laid itself upon Mordred. Naturally, this whole mess had started when he’d touched the Grail that Galahad had almost died retrieving. What a pair they made. 

Galahad took a few precious minutes to just absorb the strange, aching feeling of having the weight of a whole kingdom’s future on his shoulders. It was both magnified and abated by the comforting pressure of Mordred against him. It was a feeling he’d dreamed about for years. Something he’d grown so accustomed to prior to this ordeal that before he’d set out on a quest, they had rarely spent nights apart. It was easy to move around the royal wing if everyone expected you to be there anyway. But now, now that Mordred was here in his arms, the differences in their situations were staggering. 

The last time they’d done this, it had been in their rooms in Camelot. In the little suite they shared in the royal wing that nominally belonged to the Prince. The four postered bed with thick curtains that Mordred always insisted be drawn as tight as possible, tucked into their furs to keep out the spring chill. Now, here, in this cold tent in the middle of the night, with Mordred weaker than a kitten and half dead, Galahad appreciated the time all the more. 

But that was running short. Time. They needed to wake. To fetch Irida, to make last-minute preparations, to put Mordred’s armor on him and make sure it didn’t tip him over to do it. 

With all the tenderness his body possessed, Galahad leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of Mordred’s head. He allowed himself to gently move his arm from where it had been resting around Mordred’s waste and towards the hands that Mordred had tucked carefully into his chest. He stroked the back of one of them with his fingertips, giving one gentle sensation at a time as he eased Mordred back into conciseness. 

Mordred stirred gently as Galahad fidgeted with his hand. His breathing changed, becoming quicker and not quite so deep. He was waking up. 

“It’s time, my love. Wake up. I’m right here. I haven’t left and I won’t leave, but you need to wake up.” Galahad murmured, tracing concentric circles on the back of Mordred’s hand. The prince groaned quietly and shifted, arching slightly into Galahad’s ribs as he stretched minutely. 

“Little bit longer. Nice dream.” Mordred muttered, grabbing onto the arm that had encased him and tucking it against his cheek. “Don’ leave yet.”

“I’m not the dream, Mordred. I’m here.” Galahad patiently responded. Mordred must not have internalized the events of the night before. And really, after a year and a half of torture, who could blame him. 

“Oh.” Mordred blinked, as if trying to make himself wake up faster as he clutched the hand in his grasp harder. He looked over his shoulder blearily and yawned, in a way that Galahad had often likened to a cat in the past. “It was real. Good.” 

By some silent conclusion, both Galahad and Mordred began to shuffle in the tiny, narrow cot so that Mordred was laying with his face buried in the front of Galahad’s shirt and Galahad had his arms threaded around Mordred tightly. Their legs tangled together as Galahad pressed another kiss to the top of Mordred’s head. Both knew that this was a position they couldn’t hold for more than a few minutes before Galahad’s arm went dangerously numb, but it was worth it for the comfort it brought. 

“Plan. One more time.” Mordred demanded, his lips brushing the lacing on Galahad’s shirt as he spoke. 

“Alright. We go get my horse, get our armor on just in case, ride out and meet our fathers and their four and a half divisions of cavalry at dawn, end this whole experience and hopefully by noon we’ll be back in Da’s army tent.” Galahad summarized, trying hard not to jinx anything by expecting something. It was going to take a remarkable amount of luck and good bluffing to pull this off, and Galahad knew it wouldn’t be as easy as he made it sound. 

“Holy fuck, four and a half divisions?” Mordred gasped, staring up at Galahad with unrestrained shock. That was Arthur’s cavalry at almost full strength. He’d left a garrison of troops and half a division to guard Camelot. 

“I think our parents are taking this little insurrection of yours rather seriously darling. All of the commanders were there last night, with captains. Barring Holt and Gare. Lucan was filling in for me. And Bedevere was filling in for Holt. Five banners on the field, or I’m forgetting a whole family member.” Galahad explained, 

“I’m going to have to act like I did when I was possessed. I need you to be ready for that. And don’t think I’ve slipped back under. The way I’ve treated this army, they’re almost going to be thankful when The King takes over.” Mordred said, trying to be serious while enjoying the feeling of Galahad’s hands sifting through his hair. Galahad tried hard not to wince at that, actively trying not to think about the difference in quality between the two armies. Without this, it would have been a bloodbath. Especially with four and a half divisions. 

“That’s fine. Excuse me as a personal spy, I’ll cloak my face.” Galahad nodded, quickly thinking about all the contingencies they’d need. “But first, we really need to get my horse. I already feel bad for leaving her out last night after our hard ride.”

Mordred nodded quickly and made to get up, tried shifting to climb out of their bed. As he started to push up onto an elbow, he groaned, wincing uncomfortably as he kept pushing. Galahad instantly reached out to help. With a little bit of support, Mordred managed to drag himself upright and pull his boots out from under the bed. Galahad tried hard not to fixate on the moment, tried to move past it, excuse it as Mordred’s stiff joints and the normal pain that lingered in his frame at any given moment. But this was worse. Much worse. Mordred, despite his body revolting against him, had always stayed strong enough to fight off the worst of whatever it was that bothered him. Clearly something had changed that Galahad hadn’t been aware of last night. 

“When did you start feeling like shit?” Galahad asked, shuffling around to sit at Mordred side. He pulled his own boots out and began to lace them on. The familiar pattern of the leather and the laces were enough to keep his hands busy and his eyes on Mordred. 

“Got bad last week. I think I’ve stopped drinking too.” Mordred admitted, a little wild-eyed. “I think I’ve been running on fumes and the curse. I didn’t know how bad I’d gotten until…”

“Until this morning. Gods, I’m so stupid. We need to get something in your stomach, and soon. If you fall off your horse and die on that fucking battlefield in front of Da, he’s literally going to kill me.” Galahad hissed, yanking his boots into place and hurrying up to retrieve his now dry cloak from the rack by the brazier. “I can’t lose you like this. I won’t.” 

Before Mordred could blink, Galahad had donned his familiar armor and was holding a set of leathers and a lurid orange and green patterned cloak. Mordred hardly had the chance to protest before Galahad knelt in front of him. “Galahad, please, I can-”

“No, let me. When was the last time you accepted help from anyone.” Galahad almost winced at his own tone of voice. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh. His worry was overriding everything else. “Here, sorry, why don’t you do your vambraces while I do the greaves. Did I grab the right cloak?”

Mordred nodded, accepting the vambraces and buckling them on with practiced ease, even if his fingers fumbled slightly with the catch. Galahad had already finished both of his legs by the time he was doing up the last buckle on his arm. Slipping on the leather breastplate was easy, and Mordred wordlessly allowed Galahad to buckle him into it. He focused on pulling on the cloak, and manipulating the penannular brooch to the best of his ability. It was not quite like the one on his usual red cloak, but the mechanism was the same even if the shape and the weight were vastly different. Between the both of them, it had taken less than five minutes to get Mordred ready. Swords and knives were quickly buckled into various places, and for the first time in months, Clarent didn’t feel so heavy in Mordred’s hands. 

Together, they slipped out of Mordred’s tent and into the fog that still hung heavy around the entire area. Galahad silently led him towards Irida, knowing exactly where he’d left her. Not a single soul was in the area, the guards having just left for a different rotation. They had fifteen minutes to get back before anyone had a hope of noticing Mordred’s absence. 

Irida was not particularly pleased to have been left with her saddle on in the cloying mists for hours, nor was she shy about letting Galahad know that. She snorted and pawed at the ground, nodding for a moment to show her displeasure. Galahad approached her slowly, talking lowly to his horse as if she could understand him. “Yeah, I know girl, I know. Soon you’ll be back somewhere getting a nice meal and a rub down, but not until we’re all safe. You know that. But look who I found!”

Mordred stepped forward, holding his hand out for her to snuffle. She did so eagerly, her ears flicking upright as she nuzzled his hand before moving on to gently lipping his shirt and nickering gently. She’d missed him. Mordred smiled, careful of resplitting his cracked lip, and scratched under her forelock and bridle. He’d missed her too. 

Meanwhile, Galahad had gone around the side of his horse and was digging in the saddlebags that hadn’t been unpacked from his journey. He came back with a handful of dried meat and fruit, and a waterskin. He offered them to Mordred, with a quiet question. “Please?”

The prince sighed, looking at the offering in earnest. It was going to hurt. It would undoubtedly help more than it hurt, but it was going to hurt. He took the water first, and had several small sips before selecting a chunk of fruit from Galahad’s hand. He swallowed it without chewing, almost recoiling at the feeling of more in his stomach than had been in it for days. He took a few more small sips and did the same with a small piece of dried meat. Then Mordred pushed the whole ensemble back at Galahad, shaking his head. “I can’t. Maybe afterward. That may have already been too much.” 

Galahad was about to protest for a split second, and then quickly reconsidered and went to go stash the supplies away again. He was back within seconds, having collected Irida’s reigns and unpicketed her from the tree she’d been hitched to. They were ready to move again. They were almost as silent with the horse as they were alone. Irida was smart. Too smart sometimes. She seemed to sense the urgency in their silence and followed suit, not even allowing herself to step on any rocks. They were back at Mordred’s tent before either of them realized it. Galahad quickly fastened Irida’s reigns to one of the tent poles and ducked inside, giving her a final pat. 

“So, that’s that, now we just wait a few minutes for dawn.” Galahad hummed, quickly unfastening his cloak and retrieving a spear from the weapons rack in the corner. It was standard practice to keep a rack in a commander’s tent, just in case something was needed. He quickly fastened his cloak to the spear, tying it tightly with confidant knots. It would hold. It would do its job. 

Mordred had sunk back onto the bed behind him, silent and weary. Galahad quickly replaced the spear on the shelf and came to Mordred’s side. Loyal as ever. “Copper for your thoughts?”

“The next steps will be crucial. We’ll be expected in my council tent in a few minutes. All I need to do is treat them terribly and make sure they all follow my instructions to the letter. If I look at you to provide numbers, inflate them.” Mordred’s tone had fallen back into the same one that his father and brother took when things had come down to the wire in the command tent. It was a voice of instruction. These were orders. Orders, Galahad could handle. 

But even with all the firmness in Mordred’s voice, the shadows in his eyes told a different story. Galahad could read the need in them, just like he could read the uneasy hand on his hilt. He silently extended a hand, offering whatever Mordred needed. The prince pulled him into a hug, quietly burying his face into the unforgiving planes of Galahad’s hardened armor.

“I’m scared, Gallie. I’m scared of what’s about to happen. I wonder what you’ll think of me, when I show you what I’ve done. What I had become.” Mordred whispered, leaning further into Galahad as the knight wrapped his arms around him. A familiar hand wound itself into his hair as the other skated down his spine. “It was almost easy. To say it to the crowd. To convince them that this was the right thing. Now I have to go lie about it again and I’m scared.”

“Well. Whatever happens, we’ll be together.” Galahad tried to sound reassuring as he held onto Mordred. He held the same fear in his heart. A million things could go wrong before the events of the day settled, one way or another. 

“Thank the Goddess for that. Together is much better than alone.” Mordred trembled, almost imperceptibly at the thought. Galahad tightened his grip on his partner, unable to bear the thought of being apart again. “The dawn is coming.” 

Mordred, much like Galahad, could sense the rising of the sun as it crept towards the horizon. They both knew that it was time. Galahad ran his hands down Mordred’s arms and carefully helped him stand. Making sure that he was stable, Galahad gently pressed his forehead to Mordred’s. “We’re going to be fine.”

“I trust you,” Mordred whispered in reply, the breath ghosting across Galahad’s lips for the split second before he leaned up and kissed him. 

Galahad allowed him the kiss, careful as he had been the night before. Cautious. Mordred was as fragile as the heath-weed he loved. And time was running thin. 

They slowly broke apart, pressing their foreheads together for another split second before moving. Galahad then braced Mordred’s arm against his own and carefully pulled him upright. Mordred stood smoothly and balanced himself against his lover for a moment before moving. A silence stretched between them. It felt wrong to break it as they both slipped out of the tent. 

Galahad quickly gathered some of the thick fog that was disappearing in the earliest fingers of dawn, he curled it around his face. Mordred could only see his face, his true face if he focused. Otherwise his eyes slipped off of Galahad’s face. The magic of the spell made him want to look anywhere else. Mordred blinked hard, forcing himself into the attitude he’d been forced to use during his time as a puppet. Galahad tried hard not to think of the empty shell that Mordred had been the night before. He tried to force himself not to think of it at all as Mordred drew the persona around him again. He fought the urge and won. 

Mordred turned to him briefly, the light bleeding rapidly out of his blue eyes as his emotions flattened into a haunting mask. Then he turned away, striding off into the dissipating fog without looking back. Galahad bit back his reflexive shudder and followed. 

He snagged Irida’s reins and with the gentlest tug, she kept pace with him. He put a hand on her cheek, taking a small comfort from her presence. They threaded their way through Mordred’s camp with ease, and quickly came to a stop in front of what must have been the command tent. Galahad quickly tied Mordred’s spear, with his cloak attached to the carrying spot in Irida’s saddle, a quick, practiced perfunctory movement. Mordred knew the motion and its timing by heart. He stopped just long enough for Galahad to have tucked it away before he moved into the tent. Their eyes never met, and they never looked at each other. To look was to break. They could not afford that. 

Mordred entered the command tent and looked around. Everything was exactly the way he remembered from the night before. A map on the table, a knife stabbed through both, and his commanders circled around. Unlike his father’s tent, there were fewer commanders and no captains. He could barely put their last names with their faces, let alone name their partners, kids, and horses like he could with his father’s. Each of them stared at him expectantly. Waiting. Waiting for him to speak. 

“We have no time to waste. My spy has informed me that the Pendragon’s forces are larger than we were informed of. I will meet the Pendragon in the center of the field to accept terms if he chooses to offer. Absolutely do not attack unless ordered by me. If I leave with him, you are to surrender immediately. You will follow my lead or taste my steel. Keep your heads on your shoulders. I expect to see you all lined up by the time the sun crests the horizon. Go.” Mordred’s orders were perfunctory and careless as he dismissed them. The commanders scattered without a word. It almost seemed like they were afraid to be in the same space as the Prince. The meeting had been so drastically different than any of the other dozens of pre-battle meetings Galahad had witnessed. No well wishes, or last-minute strategy, no checking of orders, or hands clasped, no arrow counts. It made him wonder how much of Arthur’s kingdom was built on trust and care. Mordred waited for the last of them to filter out of the tent before letting a sigh loose. The breath seemed to knock the persona off of his shoulders. The slow breath he drew in restored him to the person Galahad knew. The one he loved. 

Galahad slowly walked up behind him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Mordred leaned into it, taking the small comfort for what it was worth. The pair didn’t have time for anything else. The dawn was coming, and with it, the war they had to stop. “Time to face our fathers.” 

Mordred nodded in agreement and donned the facade again, almost as if the slip had never occurred. He brushed past Galahad, not meeting his eyes. He couldn’t admit what he’d just done out loud. Shame read heavily in the unspoken planes of his posture, unable to be read by anyone in this camp but him. Galahad followed him, letting the silence between what was thought and what was never spoken stretch all the way back to Mordred’s tent. Interrupting him now seemed like a folly. This version of Mordred had cloaked himself in a lack of speech that unnerved even the steeled nerves of hardened soldiers and Galahad barely had the stomach to stand it. 

Mordred’s tent, when they arrived back at its bland tan flaps, had a stablehand and a warhorse standing in front of it. Amid all of the rest of the camp scrambling for battle, mounting up and taking arms, this page stood shaking in his boots. Mordred wordlessly took the reins from the child and motioned for him to leave. Galahad carefully kept himself and a meter between Irida and the strange horse. They had not been introduced, and therefore could be hostile to each other. All of the King’s cavalry were trained impeccably to protect their riders, but the Du Lac and Pendragon personal horses underwent additional training. Irida was fiercely protective of her rider, and Galahad had no idea what this horse was like. Better safe than sorry. 

Mordred stroked the chestnut’s forelock gently, murmuring to it in a low voice. “This is Perfuga. She has served me for these months. Give me your hand.” 

Galahad carefully extended his hand, careful to listen for Irida’s warning snort if something should go wrong. Mordred turned it, palm up, and offered it to Perfuga as an introduction. She lipped at his hand, ears alert and attentive as Mordred soothed her in power-laced tones. Perfuga nickered gently in response, and Mordred moved Galahad’s hand to replace his own on her muzzle. Galahad indulged her in several worthwhile pets, scratching gently under her bridle to earn her favor while he fought the urge to comment on the name. Traitor. Deserter. 

Properly introduced, Galahad retreated back to the safety of his own mount. Mordred was clearly stalling for the extra minutes, unwilling to move forward with the plan. To be entirely honest, he was just as unsettled. A misstep now would cost both of them their lives, and possibly hundreds of other peoples lives too. It made for a heavy heart to carry. 

Galahad backed up, carefully pressing himself against his horse to ground himself. The physical contact from something so familiar as his mount let him think more clearly. Or at least, prevented him from spiraling down into his own thoughts. He felt better with his back pressed to her chest. Irida draped her neck over one of his shoulders, protective as she regarded Mordred’s unfamiliar mount. No doubt missing her own friend and Mordred’s usual horse, Tara. Galahad collected his steed, pulling her attention to him. She obeyed the silent command, holding him against her as they both watched Mordred mount up. He struggled to pull himself into the saddle from the ground. For a heartbeat, Galahad thought about moving to help. But that would have broken their charade. It would not do. 

Once he was safely situated in his saddle, Galahad moved away from his spot against Irida to fetch the spear. His cloak was still secured to it, just as it had been when he’d tied it on. Galahad quickly unfastened it and handed it to Mordred. The Prince hefted it with an ill-disguised groan, and held it close to his side as Galahad swiftly turned to mount. 

He was well seated in his saddle in seconds, already nudging Irida closer to Mordred so he could take the spear back. She obeyed flawlessly, and stepped close enough for the Prince to hand Galahad his weapon. He paused for a moment, and unbuckled his sword too. Clarent was a familiar weight in his hands, almost as familiar as that of his own blade. He tried not to think too hard about what handing over his sword could mean for Mordred if the next half an hour went badly. Instead, he just slotted Clarent into the spot in Irida’s saddle for swords, the one where his spare would usually sit. It was a quick process to sort everything out.

Mordred observed with an almost detached air as Galahad straightened up and nodded. The Prince took hold of his reins and turned his horse’s head towards the battlefield. Galahad wheeled with him, Irida matching the other horse step for step. All around him, an army followed. 


	2. Red Skies At Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronted with the very real possibility of war about to break out on the fields of Camlann, Galahad and Mordred stand on the edge of a knife. They also stand in opposition to one of the most fearsome forces the isles have ever seen. Their plan hinges on this singular moment.

The army lining their side of the clearing parted for them, leaving a wide channel to the very front of the line. Mordred forced himself not to pay attention to them. Not to pay attention to anything at all. He had to hold it together for a little longer. That was all. Just a bit longer. He tried to make himself to keep his breaths even and regulated as he counted the seconds. 

Galahad was there, at his side, where he belonged. The other commanders were spaced evenly along the front line, their horses shuffling under the stress. Galahad tried hard not to react to the obvious discomfort of the animals. Ill trained horses meant an ill-trained army. And damn if these bastards didn’t live up to that. The front line wasn’t a line, so much as it was a loose squiggle. There was no line spacing, no formal arrangement. Supposed divisions were more like loose groupings of peasants and mercenaries on horses. This ragtag group would be worse than useless against the forces of the Pendragon.

Speak of the dragon and he shall appear. The mist burned from the field in exactly the way Galahad had intended it to. It vaporized to reveal a King, cloaked in scarlet riding out of the trees. Arthur. He blazed red and gold in the sunlight, the rising sun at his back as his horse marched onto the plane of battle. A step behind him, Galahad’s own father appeared, a crow with feathers drenched in blood. Lancelot looked for all the world like Death on his Pale Horse, heralding the end of times. 

A horse-length behind them, the front line of the King’s Cavalry appeared out of the mist. They were the very definition of precise. A violent red line stepping out of the trees in unison. Followed by another line. And another. You could have taken a ruler to those horses and it wouldn’t have changed a damn step. This was mechanical. Exact. Terrifying. 

Galahad had never considered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a full contingent of Arthur’s cavalry. He’d always experienced this moment from the other side of that line. He had always ridden into battle as one of Arthur’s red-cloaked riders. The fear this kind of training drove home was extreme. The forces rallied at his back shifted and wavered, as if unsure of what to do with this obvious display of force. Damned if Dinadin wasn’t right, the imagery was exactly as he sang, a red tide. Unstoppable, deadly, certain as the sunrise and powerful as the sea. 

Here he was, a sole spot of faded, tattered red that used to match the rest. And he didn’t even get the courtesy of wearing his uniform. His cloak, his pride as a captain, was still tied to the spear that he had planted as his own standard. It stood as the only mark that he and Mordred were who they appeared to be, and not an enemy for their fathers to trample underneath their hooves. 

Then the banners started to appear. Galahad counted, watching them materialize as the water vapor in the air dissipated, and the ranks rode in perfect lines out of the trees. Arthur’s red, complete with Dragon standard. Gawain’s green, baring his five-point star. Loholt’s rearing horse in blue. Bors orange banner, sporting his boar. Each with their riders wearing a jerkin to match their color. Each with a red cloak. Four colors. Four banners. 

Tristan’s mahogany banner and its green falcon were missing. Galahad sat, frozen, praying that the division of archers, light cavalry, and spies was dispatched to take out Agravaine’s forces. The contingent from the coward had still yet to show their faces, despite the battle time being set at dawn. 

Next to him, Mordred’s head snapped sideways, glaring viciously at Galahad for a beat before snapping back to forward. It was code. Mordred was trying to get Galahad’s attention. It was one of Arthur’s old tricks, something they’d both learned when they’d first joined the cavalry. This meant that even across a battlefield, the parents that Mordred had fixed his gaze on would know that they were communicating, even if nobody on their own side of the lines knew. It was a rudimentary sign language, communicated with the person next to you, with fingers. Galahad watched carefully out of the corner of his eye as Mordred quickly flicked out four fingers and tapped them twice on the neck of his horse. A question. Four divisions?

Galahad responded, splaying all five fingers open on the neck of his horse and tapping once. Five. Five standards had been in camp last night. Tristan was not present. They both turned to count again, just to be sure they weren’t missing anything as the last of Arthur’s forces filed out of the woods and stopped in perfect lines. They were easily grouped, quartered into the four banners that were present. But that was wrong. Even with Tristan’s division missing, if there were three and a half divisions present, it would have looked it. Arthur’s lines were always exact. He claimed it made them easier to count. In this once instance, that made it true for Galalahd and Mordred to count as well. A half a division was missing. A whole company. Not with Tristan, not with the main company. Mordred tapped back what Galahad was already thinking. Three fingers. One tap. This was only three true divisions. 

Galahad froze in place as he examined the troops in front of them. While it was standard for each company to only have one color, and for them to wear jerkins that matched as a matter of division pride, there was an exception. Arthur’s personal bodyguards, The Wolfpack, Lancelot’s elite soldiers, wore black. The men in Galahad’s own company were the only ones to defy the color scheme. And they were missing. Galahad searched for them, scanning rows and looking at faces. Trying to recognize any of his brothers-in-arms in the ranks of the front line. But only one person sported the characteristic black armor of the Wolfpack, and it was Lancelot himself. 

Galahad quickly tapped back, a strange twist of fingers and wrist that was the indicative gesture for Wolfpack. It was a closely guarded secret among the Wolfpack, and those they protected. Only the royal family and the Wolfpack knew it. 

Mordred recognized it and went ramrod straight as they both realized the implications of the absence. The Wolfpack was probably doubling back. There was every likelihood that Arthur’s most feared and most accomplished warriors were at their unprotected backs as they spoke. Arthur was taking this threat of civil war, this insurrection with deadly seriousness. He was fully prepared to end all of their lives to halt it in its tracks. Just as he had always done. This was the Arthur of Galahad’s youth. The warlord. The one who had spent years fighting tooth and claw for peace and stability. The small amount of color that had graced Mordred’s features had drained away, and he shook in his saddle. It took every ounce of Galahad’s self-control not to wheel his horse around and charge off to see if the black-clad warriors were there. 

That, and the fact that Mordred had locked his eyes on his father. The look in his eyes screamed desperation. Galahad couldn’t have abandoned him now, not for anything. Mordred could afford to let his control slip now. He didn’t have to pretend for anyone he was facing. That was family. That was Dad and Baba, and Uncle Cei and Lucan, and Gawain. He was allowed to look at them with a pained, twisted expression on his face. They wouldn’t hold it against him. Galahad watched him blink hard and force his face back into as flat of a mask as he could handle. This was going to end, one way or another. 

Across the field, Galahad locked eyes with his own father. They were a mirrored set, Pendragon and Champion, one for each side of the war. He waited, breath held, for his father to give him the cue to ride forward to meet in the middle. They hadn’t discussed this before Galahad left, but it didn’t matter. Galahad would know when the sign came. Lancelot slowly lifted one hand away from his reins and held out three fingers. On the count of three then. He began lowering fingers. As Lancelot lowered the last finger, Galahad nudged his horse forward, and made sure Mordred moved with him. 

Arthur and Lancelot mirrored them, approaching slowly towards the centerground of the battlefield. The minutes seemed to hang in the air for an eternity as they rode closer. Horses were pulled to a halt as soon as they were in comfortable talking distance, certain that they weren’t going to be overheard by prying ears. 

Galahad could have cut the tension between the four of them with a knife. Nobody spoke. Nobody made a move to look at any of the others in the eye. The pressure built around them until he could swear it was a tangible feeling. Galahad found himself resolutely staring at his father’s boot to avoid looking at him in the face. Something was going to snap. And soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this time guys! sorry! Also, I took some creative licensing with the cavalry! I have MANY plans for the infrastructure of how Arthur runs his army. Ask me things about it! I have ANSWERS!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Once again, I'm @ Knight-of-the-Kitchen on Tumblr! Come scream at me!! Kudos and comments appreciated as always, I love hearing from everyone. The next chapter is written and being edited! This chapter was rather short, the next two will be a bit longer. This chapter is also full of Florence and the Machine references, there are SO many. No Light No Light was a great influence in the writing of this whole concept, so I felt compelled to include it while I was stuck.


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